


If Memory Serves Me Well

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sansan, Eventual Smut, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Psychology, Reverse Amnesia, Say what - Freeform, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound is dead. Sandor Clegane is at rest. Truly. The Hound took a hit to the head after Arya leaves him. Sandor wakes on an Isle of monks with his memories scattered and lost. But the one thing he can remember is Sansa Stark. She is clear and has the answers Sandor seeks. A journey from the Quiet Isle to the Vale and beyond. Eventual, intense Sansan goodness. Heavy book influence. Not much of the show to be found here. </p><p>"Sandor had deliberately waited to look at the last house of interest until Oswin had fallen asleep. A wolf’s head sigil greeted him when he found the pages containing House Stark’s history. And there, in the middle of a page, was a name that meant everything. She was all he had now, the only memory worth keeping. There was a feeling, open and raw with need, rooted inside him as solid as his bones and as profound as his soul. Sansa Stark was important. She was something. Something essential and treasured. She was his. In some way. If only he could remember how."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning? Thoughts of suicide.

His leg was fire. Not the heart-stopping, terror-striking, piss-letting fire of his youth. This fire was deep and aching. A wretched heat, with a molten core, that sent fingers of pain up and down his body. The throb in his head and neck were dull compared to the stinging warmth in his leg.

 

Sandor had been sitting under the tree for an hour. There had been tears at first when he realized he was going to die. He didn’t think he was afraid of death; it was the suffering he didn’t want. He’d suffered before, in a bed as a child, for weeks. The thought of living out that nightmare again terrified him. So he’d begged for mercy from the little she wolf and when that hadn’t worked, he’d goaded her on with the most atrocious acts and thoughts his mind could come up with in his state.

 

_I killed your butcher’s boy. . ._

_. . .I should have fucked her bloody._

 

None of it had worked. The Stark bitch had left him bloodied, weak and weeping. It would be nightfall in a few more hours. Wolves would come prowling.

 

At least she had left him Stranger. She had ransacked his saddle bags first, taking what little he had that would be useful to her. A horse and a skin of water; that was all he had left in the world for the short time he would be in it.

 

He was thirsty, he realized. His mouth was the driest of sands. The water skin gave him relief for a moment but there was nothing to be done about the fever that still boiled his mind. How long did it take to die from rot and fever, he wondered. A day? Two? More? He’d started to weep again. The wolves were going to be his mercy and that was going to be a sick way to go; all carnage and gore. Probably wouldn’t be anything left of him in the end but bones. Nothing to alert anyone that the Hound was dead; as if there was anyone to care anyway.

 

He couldn’t stand the thought. Arya had left him his dagger. Wouldn’t be too hard to slip it into his own ribcage, would it? Or bleed himself out from the wrists? He could grant himself mercy and end the suffering. He didn’t have many options and there was no way of stopping the sun from setting.

 

Taking the blade from its sheath clumsily, he turned it over in his hands. He caught part of his reflection in its silver length. It had been a long time since he’d had a good look at himself. His appearance was worse than he remembered; blood was caked within his scars, marbling his skin with black reds and rusty browns. There was a moment of complete self pity. What the fuck had he been born for? What sort of depraved Gods sent a child into the world to be burned and abused, let him grow into a hateful man with a heart of rage and then let him pass through yet one more suffrage to find the peace in death? What sort of holy beings made something and gave it no joy except in the arms of the Stranger? Those cold arms were going to be the only place he ever felt welcome, wanted or loved. Warm, living ones sure as hell had never given a fuck about him; not unless there was gold to pass a palm with first.

 

Except for one, his heart reminded him. There had been one to reach out to him not once, but twice. In his most sorrowful, frightened moments there had been one hand that had dared to touch him. And what thanks did he give her? Cruel words and a fucking worthless cloak of lies.

 

He was a bloody travesty; a perverse mockery of life. Ribs or wrists, he mulled, trying to flip the knife in his hands and failing. It thumped to the ground beside him. He moved to pick it back up again but a great black hoof stomped on it before his hand could wrap around the handle.

 

“Stranger, you shit!” he yelled, though it was hardly more than a quiet rumble. His strength had deserted him hours ago. The horse nickered at him and pawed at the ground, spinning the knife and sending it several feet out of his grasp. “Mangy, son of a bitch!” he continued to curse. Was he going to have to crawl on his belly for mercy?

 

The horse bent low to nudge him in the temple; its velvet nose soft on his skin. Warm air huffed in his ear. The horse gave him a steadying whinny; a sound he usually heard after battle when he sat in the straw of a stable’s stall with the beast. Wine for him; apples and oats for Stranger. There wasn’t a wife to welcome him back after a fight. Only a brute of a horse that somehow tolerated him. He felt pain both inside and out. His bruised head ached while more tears spilt from his eyes.

 

“It’s no use, you dumb beast. I’m dead. Get going and find a new master.” But the horse pushed at him harder. He could feel the leather of Stranger’s reins brush against his hand. And something inside him changed. How far was the next town exactly? If he could manage to stay on the animal this time, could he make it? Maybe he wouldn’t live but someone there might be kinder than the little wolf. There might be a bed, a warm hearth and milk of the poppy; a sweet dreamless sleep instead of the cold snap of jaws.

 

“Alright,” he rasped, taking the reins in his hands, “alright horse! Up!”  He bent his good leg under him and grabbed onto the reins with all his might while Stranger jerked his head up. The force pulled him up onto his good leg; the ruined one made him curse into the horse’s mane.

 

“Kneel, kneel!” he bellowed, smacking the horse’s neck while trying to breathe through the pain. The horse obeyed, kneeling as he’d taught it to do years ago. This was going to hurt like all demons and devils in every single one of the Seven Hells, he thought. Placing the reins between his teeth, he used his good leg to shove up off the ground and swung his hip as fast as he was able. The pain was excruciating. He screamed and bit at the leather in his mouth. Moaning, he breathed through his nose and waited. The world went blurry and for a moment he was certain he was going to pass out.

 

His vision cleared. His heart slowed its rapid pace and Stranger started to move. He slumped completely over, holding the horse around its neck. The reins still lay sloppily in his mouth, drool running out over his lips and dampening Stranger’s course hair. He couldn’t move. It took everything in him just to keep breathing. Well, this wasn’t such a bad way to go, he thought, at least I’m still on my horse. That was as decent enough of an end that any warrior could ask for.

 

There was really no way for him to tell how much time passed. It was still light. It had probably only been minutes rather than the hours it felt like. Each step from the horse sent another bolt of pain through his leg. Watching dirt and stone beneath him, he let the horse do as it would. Stranger had always had good sense of direction. If there was help to be had, the horse was his best chance at finding it. The pebbles on the road turned into small boulders as they moved downhill. The shift in balance was one he could have easily handled if he’d been in better shape. As it was, there were no muscles strong enough to keep him from sliding forward and to the side. And then his view tilted and he was looking at sky; a sky with a blazing red sun, readying itself for slumber. The last thing he thought, before he crashed to the ground, was how the red and blue looked so very much like the Little Bird.

 

There was a blinding spike of pain to the back of his head. The world went dark.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

“Ah, I think he’s coming round. Elder Brother! He’s waking!”

 

There was sound but no sight. Nothing but searing white light came through his fluttering eyelids. There were strange voices around him. He felt securely held down. Blankets, he realized. There were blankets over top of him. He tried to roll over and cried out. Gods, his leg hurt terribly! Why did it hurt? Where was he?

 

The white light started to fade into colored shapes. “There now, can you hear me?” a voice asked. He choked on his thickened tongue and coughed violently. There was a cup at his chin. Cool water ran past his parted lips and helped coax the stubborn words out of him.

 

“Where am I?” he croaked, sensing shapes now in the colors. For some reason he felt a sense of danger and that he should do something about it. What, he didn’t know, but the urge to find something to defend himself with was undeniable.

 

“You’re safe,” the voice said calmly. “On the mend too, it seems. Can you tell me who you are?”

 

“I . . .” he paused. The answer he wanted wasn’t there. There were flashes in his mind. Horrible images of blood and piles of dead bodies; a suit of armor, the color yellow, a chair made up of thousands of swords and a helm crafted to look like a snarling hound. But a name? A name to place with all the images? There was none. “I don’t know,” he whispered, a thin line of panic starting to creep in behind the sense of danger.

 

The face above him came into a focus. It was a man and he was frowning. It wasn’t the face of anyone he knew. The face looked middle aged. Not youthful but not old yet either. There were lines at the corners of the man’s eyes but his hair was a ruddy brown with no trace of gray within it. The man opened his mouth again.

 

“It’s all right. You took a nasty bump to the head. Several times by the look of it. You might be confused for a bit. Do you know where you come from?”

 

Again, no true answer came to him. In his mind’s eyes he saw a boot crushing a toy and murderous black eyes. There were cold hallways and the feeling that something terrible was going to happen at any moment. He shook his head in answer, wincing at the sharp pain the movement caused.

 

“Try not to move so much. Not just yet,” the man instructed, furrowing his brow with worry. “We found you on the side of the road. You had some nasty wounds that needed tending. You’ve been out for nearly four days. Do you know how you were injured?”

 

Nothing. There was nothing where he was sure there was supposed to be something. A black horse. A little girl with messy, short hair. Anger and hate and pain! He started to tremble. Why were there so many missing pieces to him? Why were the ones he could find so dark?

 

“It’s all right, you’re safe, I’ve told you.” The man laid a hand on his shoulder. “Here try this.” Another cup was brought to his lips. This one was warm and spiced. It tasted of sour fruit and he found it far better than the water. “Not too much!” the voice warned. “You’ve had milk of the poppy as well. Best not mix too much wine with it.”

 

Wine! Yes! That was a familiar word. He liked wine, didn’t he? Red as garnets and dry on his tongue. Bottles of it sometimes!

 

“Is there nothing you can remember?” the man asked, wetting a cloth and touching it to his warm forehead.

 

He tried hard to think. To find one thing that was solid he could grasp onto.

 

A vision became crystal clear in his mind. A beautiful face; the face of something pure. It was a girl’s face but one that was growing older. There was a woman’s shape hiding under the girl’s features waiting on another year or two to show itself. She had hair like the embers of a fire, all orange, red and glowing in the torchlight on a stairway. Her eyes were blue. Blue and full of tears. He felt the ghost of a palm on his cheek.

 

“Little Bird,” he said, his voice low with awe.

 

“A bird?” the man asked confused. “What kind of bird?”

 

He shook his head. “Not a bird, bird. A person. _The_ Little Bird.”

 

“All right,” the man answered. “That’s a start, I suppose. Does the Little Bird have another name?”

 

Winterfell! He could remember the name of a large stone keep with cold and snow all around it. There had been wolves there. No! A single wolf on a piece of fabric. The Little Bird belonged to the House of Wolves. She had owned one once, hadn’t she? When he spoke to her on the road? And then it had done something wrong and it had died and he had been sent to . . .

 

He leaned over the bed and gagged. There was a bowl held under him by the strange man’s hands. Most of the wine came back up as he saw the smashed-in face of a young boy slung over the back of a black horse. His horse. He had done that! Why? And the blue eyes had cried and cried but not over the boy. Over the wolf.

 

“S-Sansa,” he gasped, spitting into the bowl one last time. “I remember Sansa Stark.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nod to And on the Seventh Day buried in there.

Three hundred and forty-two. There were three hundred and forty-two stones in the wall to his left that he could see. He knew. He’d counted them many times over the past five days. Each one was as gray and bleak as the blurred view of the world outside his window. Glass was a high-priced commodity to the monks on the Isle he resided on; there wasn’t enough coin to afford clear glass, it was explained to him when he’d complained about the lack of scenery.  It probably hadn’t been polite of him but there was little else to do but complain. Sleeping, counting and complaining. Those were his days now. The Elder Brother, the name of the man who had been there when he first woke without a title or knowledge, would probably add healing to the list of his activities but for some reason the idea bothered him. He wanted real, tangible things he could measure to pass the time with. Healing couldn’t be felt or seen, at least not fast enough for him to notice.

 

Healing bored him. He felt caged. There was a jumpy sort of energy inside him that, buggering sore leg or not, wanted let loose. He had tried once, on the third day, to rise when there was no one nearby to tell him to stop. That had been a stupendously stupid idea. The thigh muscles of his bandaged leg had given out almost immediately after he’d put the slightest amount of pressure on them. If it hadn’t been for his apparent superior upper body strength, quick reflexes he hadn’t been aware that he possessed, and a sturdy bedpost, he would have ended up sprawled out helpless on the floor.

 

His leg had burned angrily for hours after. He had asked for extra milk of the poppy, when the Elder Brother came to check in on him. It made his head dizzy but it did a good job at clearing away the throbbing agony in his leg for a time. The Elder Brother had tsked at him, spotting the blood seeping through the edges of his linen bandages, and told him not to get up on his own again. The man understood and saw far too much for his liking. Usually, he was given a single dose of the flowery tasting syrup of the poppy in the morning and another at night to help him sleep. No more than that. The Elder Brother warned a man could become sick and dependent on it otherwise. But he’d gotten half an extra dose of the poppy’s milk for his failed efforts, and that was enough to keep his mouth shut and his complaints in his head for an evening.

 

The Elder Brother had taken hours to explain all he could to him on his second day awake on the Isle. The Quiet Isle was its full name. And it was quiet. Quiet, dreary and wet all the time; a fine mist from the sea surrounded it constantly, drifting in to cover anything and anyone. Even in his supposedly dry and protected room there was always a moist feel in the air. Aside from himself and the Elder Brother, no one seemed to speak. The novice Brothers, those newest to the order of salty, soggy monks, were forbidden to do so except on the first day of the week, and that was usually only for prayer and confessions. The rest of the established Brothers chose to remain silent and contemplative for the most part; emergencies and unavoidable conversations of money and chore rationing were the understood exceptions.

 

After his not-so-secret disaster of an attempt to leave his bed, the Elder Brother had brought him two books, hoping they might settle his mind for a few more days and give his leg a proper chance to mend itself. He hated them. Not because of their content. That was agreeable enough. One was nothing more than a hymnal and the other a reflection on man’s place in the battle between the heavens and hells. Nothing offensive was to be found in either book. He couldn’t remember if he enjoyed reading. He knew how, that was obvious. The letters on the page formed into words, which grew into passages easily. But he still hated them and ended up ignoring them. There were two things they did to him and he didn’t care for either one.

 

First, they reminded him that there were things he knew, but he didn’t know _how_ he knew. He saw his hands turn the pages. He knew they were his hands. They had to be. But he didn’t feel connected to them. There was a scar in the webbing of his left hand, right above his thumb and no matter how long he stared at it, it offered him no memory to explain its existence. And that led him to thinking on other parts of his body. He knew legs were for walking, his back for supporting the rest of him and the soft bit of flesh between his legs was for pissing out all the wastes in his body. But there were no solid memories attached to any of these parts. Just fragments of scenes or feelings that were as fragile as the dust motes in a ray of sunshine. If he looked at them from the wrong angle they disappeared completely. And every angle seemed to be the wrong one.

 

The books reminded him of all the things he knew, but didn’t know the reasoning behind. Why did the thought of runny eggs make his stomach heave? Why could he stand them if they were burnt and had no business being called eggs any more? Why did he like beans over peas? Was there anyone looking for him?  Was he supposed to be searching for someone? The girl? Was she important?

 

And that was the second thing he hated about the books. The hymnal was a large, leather bound tome. The leather had been stretched and dyed a pine needle green. When he held it in his hands, a flash of something came to him so suddenly and intensely it had taken his breath away. The girl, Sansa, the only name he had to place on his life _before_. She had been carrying a book like that once. Only her book was full of fairy tales; stories about knights and fair maidens. Stories bursting apart with kisses, romances, acts of courage and triumphant conclusions.  He could remember watching her suck her lower lip between her teeth as she read, sitting on plump, crushed velvet cushions set inside a deep window well. Sunlight poured in over her. The colored glass around her cast wild blues and purples into her already copper colored curls. He knew that the he in that memory would have killed a hundred men for a chance at touching that hair.

 

It seemed like such a wonderful memory but then it changed. He stalked over to her, clanging inside a suit of armor. The book fell to the floor when he smacked it out of her hands. Tears gathered but didn’t spill from her eyes as she looked at him in both terror and pity. And he yelled at her! A pretty girl, trying to read, and he had barked at her to stop living inside of fantasies. Why would he do that? What fulfillment could be found in crushing the dreams of such a delicate creature?

 

He didn’t know and it angered him. That was another thing to hate about the books. They told him he’d done intentionally cruel things in his past. Things he didn’t want to know about. Where were his happy memories? Did he have any? The thought depressed him, which gave more fuel to the growing sense of frustration inside him. He fucking hated books.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

The crater in his upper thigh had been cleaned once since he’d woken. The Elder Brother had told him there was a large hunk of flesh missing. When he had been found there was a putrid rot taking hold and, in order to save the entire limb, dead meat had been cut and scraped away until the wound had bleed bright red blood, and not pus, once again. He had, mercifully, slept through that first part. Exhaustion and milk of the poppy had seen him through. While the monks poured boiling wine deep into the wound, and packed it with herbal poultices, he had dreamt of nothing but dark, unending spaces.

 

There was no sleeping through that first cleaning. He had nothing to gauge the pain against; no memory to compare it to. And so, that day became the most horrible memory he had. The Elder Brother had instructed two novice Brothers to hold a blanket up, preventing him from seeing what exactly was going on. Two more tall, burly looking Brothers were told to take his arms and shoulders and to hold him down if necessary.

 

“I am sorry for this,” the Elder brother apologized while giving him a hefty dose of milk of the poppy. There was true sincerity in the man’s eyes. “I have to irrigate the wound, flush it out with boiled wine once more and then bind it tightly to prevent rot. If there are any new dead pieces, I’ll have to cut those away again. This is going to hurt.”

 

“How much?” he’d asked, somehow ashamed at the tremble in his voice. He didn’t understand pain! Not like he should.  He was frightened of the unknown words, “pain” and “hurt”. He knew they were a bad thing, but _how_ bad was a mystery.

 

“Can you remember something painful?” the Elder Brother asked him back. “Anything?” The holy man’s eyes settled on his face and remained there for several moments.

 

He glanced down to his arm. There were scars there he didn’t understand. His gaze drifted over to the hearth at the far end of his room. “Fire,” he whispered, almost unconsciously.  “I think.”

 

“This will hurt worse,” the Elder Brother said dully, frowning and placing a strip of leather in his mouth. “Bite on that. Scream if you have to. Try not to struggle. If you stay still, I can finish faster. I’m sorry,” the man apologized to him once again.

 

He learned what screams were that day. Tears and cursing as well. There were words that spewed forth from his mouth he hadn’t been aware that he knew, while hot water poured out of his eyes. The Brothers at his arms held him tight and chanted something in a low tone, trying to calm him. Their murmured prayers and the milk of the poppy did little to dull the sensations that erupted throughout his body. It was hard to grasp why a pain in his leg should make his whole body twist and shake, but it did. It was made all the worse by not _knowing_.  Not knowing if it could get any worse. Not knowing if what he felt was normal or a signal that something was terribly wrong.  Not knowing if he was weak, strong, going to die or simply pass out.

 

Some sort of whimpered whines were all he could manage for an hour after the Elder Brother had finished.  He had been offered a cup of wine laced with calming valerian and skull cap but the smell alone made him gag. Instead, the Elder Brother had sat with him, wiping the sweat and mucus from his face, until his tremors subsided.

 

“Once more maybe,” the Elder Brother cautioned. The man’s voice was thick and his face pale. “I may have to do it once more. It has started to crust over. Which is good. Very good. But there was more dead flesh to remove, though not nearly as much as the first time. I’d like to check on it again in a week. Pour the wine over it one more time to make sure we’ve won over the rot.”  

 

He did pass out then. Out cold, he was told later, for a good fourteen hours. When he woke there was a plate set on a table next to his bed. It was heaping over with sliced apples, brown bread, a jar of honey and a small wheel of cheese tied up in a cloth. The cheese had garlic and fennel somehow pressed inside it. It tasted more delicious than any other meal he could remember having; which wasn’t really saying much, he mused darkly. A pitcher of ice cold water was on the table as well. He polished half of it off greedily before noticing the mug of golden ale. It was sweet, like the honey, pleasant and tingling on his tongue. It helped wash down the bread and warm his belly.

 

His appetite had come back that day, his fifth since waking to a world he didn’t completely comprehend. He demolished the plate that had been left for him. And when another was brought hours later, he ate all of that as well, asking for a second helping. The Elder Brother smiled, glad he was asking for true nourishment and not milk of the poppy any longer.

 

In his new, more aware state he realized something strange. His face felt stiff and numb, but only on one side. The first few days of his confinement he had thought it a side effect from the milk of the poppy. It made the rest of him feel vaguely desensitized and disconnected and so, he had assumed that was what was wrong with his face. But now he didn’t take the poppy’s milk during the day and still half his face felt dead to him. His fingers crept up to feel for himself what was causing the odd feeling.

 

It was a horror. Even without his sense of sight to confirm it, he knew. He slid his fingers over to the undamaged half of his face, slowly feeling the difference. Smooth skin covered that half. Not soft. Hardly! It was a sun tanned plane of roughness with patches of whiskers near his jaw and chin. But it was even and whole. The other side though – his hand shook as he touched it again- that was not smooth. Not smooth at all. Rugged would have been a kind word to describe it. But it was much, much worse than that. There were dips and cracks, ropes of fused together skin, and a dent at his jaw. He could feel bones working against one another through a very fine layer of skin when he clenched his teeth. There was no hair but half of an eyebrow. That was all. And it stretched on and on, up into his hair. Except there was no hair! It was more of the gruesome, numb feeling over half his scalp. He started to weep when his fingers swept over the place on his head where an ear should have been.

 

What had happened to him? It couldn’t be from the same span of time as the wound in his leg. That wound was fresh and the ones on his face had healed over long ago. This was an old hurt. And one he didn’t remember receiving. The few Brothers he’d seen didn’t look like him. He was sure of it. They had normal faces. His was a ruin.

 

The Elder Brother found him a short time later, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked his voice cracking as he pointed to his face. The Elder Brother’s features softened. The man took in a breath, hesitated, and then spoke.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you. I think, perhaps, they are burns? I know as much as you do,” the man said, shaking his head sadly. “I wish I had more to offer you.”

 

“You do,” he answered, straightening his spine. “I want a mirror.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re certain?” the Elder Brother questioned. “You’re sure beyond any doubt? This is not a matter to make a mistake in. The man is disorientated enough as it is. If we were to give him false information, it would be a cruel thing.”

 

The Elder Brother eyed up the young the man across the table from him. He had years of practice at seeing the truth in a man’s features. The novice across from him, Brother Oswin, didn’t twitch or blink when he spoke. The boy’s gaze was clear and his voice was free of any tremble or stutter as he shared his information. Brother Oswin had come to him early in the afternoon, begging to speak, though it was not a day set aside for such things.

 

Yesterday, the young novice had helped hold the blanket up during the injured mystery man’s treatment. Brother Oswin had stared down at the new arrival with wide eyes during the entire event. Curious, the Elder Brother had allowed him the chance to say what was on his mind and he was glad for it now. _Praise be to the Seven, we may have a few answers for the poor man._

 

“Aye, I’m sure of it, may the Stranger have me if that’s not ‘im,” Brother Oswin said with confidence. “I was near ‘im for close on two years when I squired. That’s the Hound of King’s Landing you’ve been stitching up. Personal guard to the Queen when I saw ‘im last. Temper as bad as all the Seven Hells put together. Made a mess of anyone who crossed ‘im. Once you’ve seen it, you never forget that face!”

 

“He hasn’t shown much temper or violence here,” the Elder Brother mused out loud. “Nothing more than what is expected from a bedbound, confused man.”  The bumps on the Hound’s head probably had something to do with that. Head injuries could throw a man’s mind into chaos for unknown periods of time. They could cause pieces of spirit and personality to shift and change. Sometimes there were skills and memories that never came back.

 

The Hound seemed physically fine, aside from the atrocious wound in his leg. It was his mind that had been injured the worst. Yet, it really wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The Elder Brother had seen men in battle left drooling and stammering nonsense for the rest of their lives. This Hound had been beaten down but not left senseless or dull. If half the things Brother Oswin had told him were true about this man, perhaps it was for the best. Here on the Isle, the injured man could heal properly, slowly, with the aid of prayer and simple living. The Hound could be tamed perhaps, and taught to grow into someone with a more goodly purpose.

 

The Elder Brother did hope for that possible outcome. The Quiet Isle tried not to be a boastful place, yet they all took a small amount of pride in healing those in need of peace and clarity. He had, of course, heard of the Hound of Westeros, though he could not recall ever seeing the man in person. The snarling dog’s head helm that had been found several yards back from the Hound’s body seemed familiar though. The Elder Brother was sure he’d seen its terrible, shining face once or twice before in his life on the battlefields, amidst blood and smoke.  The Hound looked to be roughly the same age as he and it was entirely possible their paths had crossed at one point or another.

 

“What is his name?” the Elder Brother asked, growing more intrigued by the minute, “the Hound can’t be his true one.”

 

“No, it’s not but don’t let ‘im hear otherwise. It’s Hound or dog. I’m telling you, you’ll end up bloodied if you use his name without his say so.”

 

“I don’t fear his temper now. He’s forgotten himself and his anger for the time being. I’m sure the man would like his given name.”

 

“It’s Clegane. Sandor Clegane. Second son of the house. Got an older brother who’s worse than ‘im if you can believe such a thing! They call that one the Mountain.”

 

Now more of the pieces to the puzzle were falling into place. House Clegane! The Elder Brother had learned of it in his studies. His mind searched back for the slip of parchment he’d seen in a book with the House Sigil upon it. Three dogs on yellow to stand for some sort of a rescue during a hunt in years gone by. And out of the grateful purse of a noble, House Clegane was awarded with land and a chance for the sons to become knights. That’s where the Elder Brother’s knowledge stopped. Aside from The Mountain That Rides, that was. The Elder Brother shuddered despite his warm room. He’d seen the first born Clegane in action and wished to all the heavens that he could erase such memories from his mind. The Gods were being kind, in a strange way, to grant him the chance at healing the younger brother.

 

Something else pricked at the back of the Elder Brother’s mind, though. He rose from his chair and began to search through stacks of papers on warped shelves and bookcases all around his room. They were sorted by date. He went back a year, then two. Ah! There was the stack he’d been looking for! Next, he searched by city, until he found those letters brought from the ravens of King’s Landing. An announcement of King Joffrey’s rise to the Iron Throne was found near the top of the stack. Farther down the page, there were more details of titles and positions and that’s where the piece of information he’d wanted was hiding. The Hound had been elevated to Kingsguard status, though, it was noted and underlined that “the cur” had refused to take any knightly vows. _Interesting_.

 

“It says here Clegane was given a position in the royal Kingsguard but he refused to take any vows,” the Elder Brother stated, waving the paper in his hands. Brother Oswin nodded his head in agreement.

 

“Sounds about right. He was always going on about how much he despised them. Vows and knights. He hated them, Elder Brother. _Hated them_. He’d beat any of us young lads if we called ‘im Ser.”  Brother Oswin then lowered his voice to a whisper and looked over his shoulder, as if in fear that the man several rooms away could actually hear him. “We used to call him un-ser behind his back.”

 

“Yes, well, you might want to refrain from that name for the time being,” the Elder Brother scolded. Putting the note back within its place in the stack, he sighed, looking at all the other piles. There was probably more to be found within them regarding the Hound, but it would take months of searching. Perhaps he could task some of the novice Brothers with the chore.

 

Turning, he spoke to Brother Oswin once again. “I’m going to go check on Clegane. See where his mindset is at the moment. I’ll see if he’s in a mood to hear some of what you’ve told me. Wait here.”

 

Brother Oswin twitched nervously. “Begging pardon, Elder Brother, but I’d rather not. You don’t understand how mean he can get. If I tell ‘im something he doesn’t like, he’s liable to snap both our necks.”

 

Was the man truly that horrendous? It made the Elder Brother grow more concerned for his charge. What sort of man could cause such fear in another man, even years after they had been separated? “Listen carefully to me,” the Elder Brother spoke. “I’ve tried telling you, he doesn’t have all his memories. He doesn’t know he’s the Hound or Sandor. I don’t think the man we’ve taken in is the same as the one you remember. He’ll be glad for the information you give him, not angry. And if he is, leave the room. It’s not as if he can follow you on that leg. Not for another week or so. Stay here as I’ve asked.” 

 

The Elder Brother didn’t wait for an answer. The young man would do as he was told or spend the rest of the day on his knees in prayer. On stone, not padded cloth! The Hound’s door was two down from the Elder Brother’s own quarters. Near enough to be heard if there was an urgent need for assistance. Knocking lightly on Clegane’s door, the Elder Brother let himself in, ready to smile and bring the man some good news. He stopped in the doorway.

 

From Brother Oswin’s descriptions one would have thought the Hound to be a man covered in the blood of babes, with fangs hanging past the edge of his lip and eyes black as the pits of hell. But that wasn’t the sight that greeted the Elder Brother. The fearsome Hound was sitting, hunched over and weak looking. His nose was red as were the rims of his eyes as he continued to rub at them fiercely. He looked like a boy, lost and alone.

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Clegane asked. There was water in his eyes and a thick sound in his throat that betrayed earlier tears. He was pointing at his face. The Elder Brother had wondered if Clegane had been aware of the burns covering half of it. It was apparent now that he was not. The Elder Brother felt a stab of guilt for not having said something sooner or being with the man as he discovered his own features.

 

Taking a deep breath, the Elder Brother stopped short before he answered. His charge didn’t ask what he looked like or how he’d been injured. The Hound had asked what was wrong with him. It was a child’s question and the Elder Brother knew there were wounds going much deeper than those that could be observed on the surface. Clegane wasn’t looking for tired platitudes. It was reassurance he was seeking. Or at least some part of him was. Something buried within him that the eyes couldn’t see but a compassionate soul could sense.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” the Elder brother said, calmly and surely. That line of thinking needed to be stamped out and the roots torn asunder before they had a chance at growing. Nothing but thorns to pierce a man’s spirit would come of letting such thoughts blossom into larger, more bitter tasting fruits.  “I think, perhaps, they are burns? I know as much as you do. I wish I had more to offer you,” he added, glumly. It might have given the injured man some peace if he could at least know why he carried such a dreadful burden.

 

Clegane seemed to regain his composure. His spine straightened and then he spoke. “You do. I want a mirror.”

 

The Elder Brother frowned. That didn’t seem like a good idea at the moment. “Later, would be better,” he replied. “I have news for-“

 

“Not later! Now!” Clegane snapped. There was a shadow of the Hound Oswin had spoken of. “I’ll find it on my own if you won’t bring it!”  The Hound started to rise from the bed, wincing and snarling as he grabbed onto a bedpost.

 

“Alright, alright!” the Elder Brother shouted. “Sit! You’re not ready for walking yet! A few more days and we’ll bring some crutches but please, not yet!” The Hound sat but stared at him angrily. “Give me a few minutes. I have a small one in my room. I’ll bring it if you promise to sit still.”  The Hound grunted his agreement.

 

The Elder took off at a brisk walk back down the hallway. In his room, Brother Oswin stood to greet him. “That didn’t go at all as I planned,” the Elder Brother explained, starting to rummage through his few possessions. “He wants a mirror and won’t settle until I’ve brought him one. Do you have scissors?”  Brother Oswin nodded. “Go and fetch them. Quickly! And bring them to Clegane’s room. The man’s a wreck and I won’t have him looking in a mirror until we’ve done something about it.” Brother Oswin dashed from the room to do as he’d been asked. Once the Elder Brother had collected all he could from his room that might be helpful, he made his was back to Clegane’s room. The man was still sitting, perched at the edge of the bed and glaring.

 

“What’s all that?” Clegane asked, pointing at the bundle in the Elder Brother’s arm.

 

“You’ve not had a proper shave or hair cut since you arrived. And by the looks of you, it’s been months before that,” the Elder Brother chattered while he dumped his armload onto the bed. There was a small piece of looking glass in the pile. Clegane dove for it but the Elder Brother was faster. “After we’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he cautioned, pocketing the mirror. “There’s no sense in not taking a bit of pride in your looks first.”

 

Clegane snorted and rubbed his hand down over his burns. “I don’t think there’s any help for this. Feels like something dead.”

 

“You haven’t seen your hair,” the Elder Brother quipped. “Here,” he said, tossing a comb at Clegane. “Start working on it while I mix some lather for your face. You’ve got half a beard. Do you want it trimmed or the whole thing gone?”

 

“Gone?” Clegane asked uncertainly. The Elder Brother gave a quick nod of agreement. Half looked odd and drew unnecessary attention to the scars. Better to do away with the whole thing.

 

There was a knock at the door. Brother Oswin entered and approached with a small pair of shears. “Do you know how to cut hair?” the Elder Brother asked him.

 

“You want me to cut the Hound’s hair?!” Brother Oswin shrieked. He sounded as if someone had asked him to dip his manhood in ice water.

 

“Hound? Who’s that?” Clegane barked.

 

“Well, that would be -“ the Elder Brother started.

 

“That’s you! Didn’t he tell you? He said he would!” Brother Oswin squeaked. “I’m sorry!” The Elder Brother rolled his eyes. Brother Oswin was a hard worker and had a good heart. But sometimes he wasn’t the quickest to catch on. Either that or he had a problem with listening altogether.

 

“I’ve _told_ you, he doesn’t remember!” the Elder Brother shouted.

 

Clegane’s eyes narrowed at Brother Oswin. “You calling me a dog?” There was a silent threat that every man in the room could hear. The Elder Brother wondered why it should send a chill up his spine. Clegane was quite clearly lame and powerless to take anyone on, yet, the Elder Brother wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t try if provoked. 

 

“Yes!” Brother Oswin yelped. “I mean, no! That is . . .” Brother Oswin looked at the Elder Brother pleadingly.

 

“Alright! Stop, the both of you,” the Elder Brother ordered. They both went silent. Brother Oswin shifted uncomfortably on his feet while Clegane quirked an eyebrow at him. “This is Brother Oswin,” the Elder Brother began to explain. “He’s been with us nearly a year now. He’s set to take his vows soon. He used to soldier and before that he squired in a city called King’s Landing. He says he knows you.”

 

Clegane’s head whipped around to look at Brother Oswin once again. “You know who I am?”

 

“Only me and every person in the city! And more outside the city, too! You’ve got a reputation, you know!”

 

“No, I don’t,” Clegane said acidly. “So are you going to tell me, or am I going to beat it out of you?”

 

“I told you!” Brother Oswin shrieked again, throwing his hands up and taking a step back towards the door. Clegane tried to stand.

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” the Elder Brother said, shoving a hand into Clegane’s chest. “You! Sit!” He turned his attention to Brother Oswin. “And you! Stop stalling and tell the man!”

 

“You’re Sandor Clegane!” Brother Oswin sputtered. “A second son. But you hated it when we called you by your birth name. Wouldn’t let us call you Ser, none either. It was Hound or dog.”

 

“Clegane,” Sandor said slowly, trying the word out with his own voice. The Elder Brother watched for any spark of memory and saw none.

 

“Hound,” Brother Oswin corrected.

 

“No, it’s Clegane here. Or Sandor,” the Elder Brother stated. “The Hound is gone for now. Lost in missing memories. Sandor Clegane is a guest of the Isle while he heals. Is that understood?” Brother Oswin nodded his head, a contrite look on his face.

 

“Why Hound?” Clegane asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

 

Brother Oswin seemed to hesitate but spoke when the Elder Brother waved a hand at him to continue. “You’ve got . . .well, you had a terrible temper. Always barking out orders and thrashing anyone you didn’t take a liking to. Which was a lot of men. Women too, sometimes.”  Clegane’s face sank and Brother Oswin looked at him with an apology on his face. “I broke a tooth once when you clapped me over the head. And I considered myself lucky! Used the wrong oil on your saddle.”

 

“You were my squire!”

 

“Ha! Gods, no! You wouldn’t have one. But you let some of us tend to your riding gear at least. But not the horse. You took care of the horse on your own.”

 

“Horse?”

 

“Aye, it was a brown stallion back then. Abyss you called it, maybe?  I can’t remember. That one fell and then you took on the black one, Stranger. That one’s a beast worse than you ever were. But it listened to you. Tried to kill all the rest of us. They’ve got it in the stables now though Brother Addison’s got a broken rib for his trouble.”

 

Clegane had set his head in his hands, leaning over. “There’s a horse? My horse?” his muffled voice asked.

“There is,” the Elder Brother chimed in. “You were found with a black stallion nearby. It wouldn’t leave you and followed us when we brought you here. It’s clearly your steed. It’s comfortable. We’ve been calling him Driftwood. Stranger! What a terrible name to burden an animal with.”

 

Clegane lifted his head, but kept his chin cupped in his hands. “So, I was a soldier?”

 

“Personal body guard to the Queen,” Brother Oswin answered, his eyes widening with admiration. “Not many men get to claim that title in their lifetime. You were bad company but no one fought as well as you. You were good. Damned good.”

 

“Oswin!” the Elder Brother scolded.

 

“Well, he was,” Brother Oswin grumbled. “Sorry, Elder Brother.”

 

The Elder Bother spoke to Clegane. “I have records from the City of King’s Landing. Several years after Oswin left, apparently you were given the job of guarding the future King. And once the Prince had been named King you were placed on his personal guard. Whatever scandalous reputation the Hound may have, you were a talented and feared warrior, that much is clear.”

 

“What else did they tell you?” Clegane asked eagerly. “The records?”

 

“I haven’t yet had a chance to go through them,” the Elder Brother explained hastily. “It will take some time. If you’ve been there since Oswin’s service that’s” –he paused to count and think- “eight years? Is that right?” he asked Brother Oswin.

 

“About,” Brother Oswin agreed. “I squired at fifteen and left the city when I was nineteen. Two years a soldier and one here.”

 

“How old am I?” Clegane’s questions showed no signs of stopping.

 

Brother Oswin shrugged. “Older than me is all I know. I just saw a name day. Twenty-two now. You were probably that when we met so twenty-eight? Thirty, might be?”

 

“Still young enough,” the Elder Brother soothed. “I myself am just past forty. You don’t look my age.”

 

“You never talked about name days. You never talked about much really. Just orders for the horse’s gear and wine. Sometimes whores,” Brother Oswin started to ramble. Clegane’s head shot up from his hands.

 

“That’s enough,” the Elder Brother warned sternly. “We can discuss such things later. Now then, that shave and trim.”

 

“Now, wait,” Clegane started, addressing Brother Oswin. “You said I’m a second son?” The uneasy look on Brother Oswin’s face was back as the young man nodded once.

 

Clegane’s face broke into a cautious smile. “Then that means I have a brother?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo many Tumblr influences going on in this chapter. . .Also, Devilsbastion has graciously agreed to help beta another story with me. So, if you enjoyed Prompt32 you know how well we work together and that this is only going to get better from here on out.

_Clegane’s face broke into a cautious smile. “Then that means I have a brother?”_

 

 

The Elder Brother’s labor-worn hands, busy moments before with mixing lather from bits of soap and warm water from a kettle set over the hearth, stilled their activity. They had the same hands; an observation Sandor made within his first day of waking. Not knowing what his life before the Isle entailed meant looking to others for answers. Comparisons between himself and the men around him could yield a glimpse into what he had once been.

 

The Elder Brother had the hands of a man who had known what it was to work until the body was ready to fall over with exhaustion, to war with men and storm the lands. Hands that had bled, foraged for meals when meat was scarce, lifted the silver from dead men’s corpses many times over, held the splintered wooden cups in an endless march of taverns and raised the skirts of paid for women. They were the hands of a man who would do _anything_ to keep from facing the reality within. There were threadlike, white scars on both their knuckles, short nails and a crooked bend to a few fingers that pointed towards breaks that had never healed quite right. The Elder Brother had left that life behind but the scars remained to tell his story. Sandor’s own hands were lined with secrets they tried to whisper to him. The scar in the webbing of his thumb he’d stared at for so long, the scabbed over flesh at the base of his palm, the burns dripping down his forearm from his left wrist. It all spoke to him in a language he did not yet understand.

 

Brother Oswin was back to shifting from one foot to the other, his thinly soled shoes striking a nervous tempo. And Sandor –Clegane, Hound, whatever the Hells his true name was- waited for someone to break the silence that adhered itself to each man’s voice as surely as their dun robes clung to their bodies. The Elder Brother took a breath, tried to speak and frowned instead, the lines of stress near his eyes becoming more pronounced. The hesitation irritated Sandor. If it were bad news he’d rather have it done and over with.

 

“What?” Sandor asked after a lengthy pause. “He dead?”  That would be his luck. The _one_ person he might be able to contact and ask aide of would be playing host underground.

 

“No,” the Elder Brother replied. “Not dead. Not that I know of.” There was sadness in the man’s eyes. Sandor’s confusion grew. If his brother wasn’t dead, why was each man avoiding taking the conversation further?

 

Surprisingly, it was Brother Oswin that stepped forward and spoke next.  “Alive, last I heard anything about ‘im. Most everyone calls ‘im Ser or the Mountain.”

 

Sandor rubbed at his forehead. The dull throb of a headache was starting. “Mountain, Hound, Elder Brother, Little Bird. Doesn’t anyone have a _name_ in this bloody land?”

 

“Darren,” Brother Oswin chirped.

 

“What?”

 

“My name is Darren.” There was a grin on Brother Oswin’s face. Sandor had yet to figure out if the man was simple or not. Then Oswin pointed at the Elder Brother. “His is Arthor but it’s respectful to call ‘im by his title here. Your brother’s name is Gregor but he doesn’t allow anyone to call ‘im that. It’s Clegane, Ser or Mountain. You two had that in common at least.”

 

Sandor was quick enough to catch the word “allow”. With Oswin’s description of himself there had been the word “hated” in reference to his feelings towards his birth name. There was a difference in not caring for something and completely denying it. There were clues, about his life before, to be found and sewn together if he paid attention.

 

“And where is he? Is there a way to send word to him?”

 

The Elder Brother set the cup of lather down on a side table with a clunk. “That may not be advisable at this time.” Brother Oswin’s head bobbed in agreement.

                                                                                                                 

“You going to tell me why?” Sandor said, his voice falling into a low octave and a rasp overtaking it. “Nothing you lot can do for me once the leg heals. I’ll need to move on at some point. If there’s family out there I should go to them.”

 

“I don’t know exactly where he’s at. Usually he kept ‘imself holed up at your family’s Keep. But sometimes he’d come to King’s Landing. For a Tourney or if there was a call to raise the banners. You’re the more skilled fighter, and huge too, but your brother’s a giant! You look like a lad stacked next to ‘im and me a dwarf! And no one’s more brutal than ‘im. There wasn’t much reason for ‘im to leave the Keep after your father’s death so-”

 

“My father’s dead?”

 

Brother Oswin’s face went pale, realizing the information he’d blurted out. His voice was small as he answered. “Aye. Sorry for that. Your brother owns the Keep now. If he passes it would rightfully go to you.”

 

“Are there any more of them? Family?”

 

Brother Oswin shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  
The Elder Brother stood, sighing. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he spoke before exiting the room. Sandor wondered if he had somehow angered the man. It wasn’t his intention to belittle the care he’d been given thus far, but he knew charity couldn’t last forever. As a man, he should look to the future and how he would one day support himself.

 

Sandor’s focus came back to Brother Oswin. “All right, so my brother’s a piece of shit, just like you’ve made me out to be-“

 

“No, you’ve got it wrong. You were mean. You did as you were ordered, like all of us. He’s something else. Something worse than the Stranger itself. I’ve seen your brother rape a mother in front of her child. Seen ‘im do the reverse too. Seen him gag a man, tie ‘im down and take his hands, and not for any other reason than he _could_.  You struck a whore once for calling you handsome and beat the life out of any man on the battlefields. But that’s where it stopped, do you see?”  

 

Sandor didn’t answer, taking a moment to consider the difference between his brother and himself. Despite there being several chairs in the room, Oswin decided to take the bed opposite Sandor’s, bouncing a few times in his seat and poking at the furs. Then he swiveled, kicking his feet up onto the bed and laying flat out on his back, hands crossed on his stomach.

 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sandor said, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

 

“The beds are nicer here in the sick rooms. We get old pallets on the floor in the novice’s rooms,” Oswin observed. The young man started to wriggle on top of the furs, settling in it seemed.

 

“I’m not interested in the state of your sleeping arrangements. You’re not bunking here.”

 

“Ah, now, come on. Just for a night? I can tell you more about your brother. I can tell you all sorts of things about King’s Landing.”

 

Sandor decided perhaps Oswin wasn’t a half-wit after all. “Fine. Keep talking.”

 

“Well now,” Oswin started, staring at the rafters and tucking his laced fingers behind his head. “I never knew either one of you well. You both kept to yourselves. I think that’s all _you_ really wanted. You just liked being on your own. You and people didn’t mix. Dogs and horses you got along fine with. Hells, I saw you once give the leftovers on your plate to a cat whose ribs were sticking out. Don’t tell Elder Brother I cursed! It’ll be extra chores all week if he finds out I’ve done it twice in a night.”

 

“I don’t care how much you buggering curse.”

 

“Right,” Oswin nodded. “I haven’t gotten a chance to talk this much in months. I think you liked things that didn’t talk back. Or stare. That’s why the animals never got any anger from you. Not unless they were being unruly. But with people? You were silent unless you had no choice. Then it was only enough information to get someone off your back. Direct. Blunt. That was you.”

 

“And my brother?”

 

“He wasn’t around much. But the little I saw ‘im was enough to know I never wanted to be near ‘im if I could help it. Do you know he bashed in dog’s head ‘cause it startled his horse into throwing him?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Sandor replied with a snarl. “There’s not much left I do remember.”

 

“Just a turn of phrase. I didn’t mean any offence by it,” Oswin apologized. “I’m surprised your brother didn’t take the horse’s head as well for throwing ‘im. That’s the type of man your brother is. And his part in claiming the Iron Throne for King Robert? Gods, it was a massacre. He took the Princess, right, and he-“

 

The door to Sandor’s room –there had not yet been a need for him to share the space with another injured or ill man- gave a long creak from the half rusted hinges as the Elder Brother entered. Brother Oswin sat up with haste, straightened his back and shook his robes out quickly. “Don’t get comfortable, Oswin,” the Elder Brother scolded. There was a large tome in the man’s hands, bound with thick chords of leather and nearly the size of Oswin’s torso.

 

“He wants me to stay!” Brother Oswin tried, pointing to Sandor. “I can tell ‘im things no one else can. He said he wants me to stay.” There was a meaningful look from the younger man as the Elder Brother grunted while placing the huge book on Sandor’s bed.

 

Sandor wasn’t sure he wanted Oswin there with him all night. But he _did_ want the information running around in his skull. And a favor given now was something he could barter with down the line, should he come to need one himself. He searched for the right words to say to grant him what he wanted. Threats and brute strength were going to get him nowhere with the Elder Brother. And what true threat was he at the moment? There wasn’t a chance in all the Seven Hells he could make it across the room unaided in his present condition.

 

Once again, a vision of a red haired girl with a pretty face and even prettier words, spilling from rose tinted lips, came to him. In his mind her mouth formed phrases like, “if it pleases you,” “pardon me,” and “thank you, Ser”. He could almost feel the answering sneer his own mouth gave to her in response to her polite chatter. The same girl changed in his mind, growing taller and curved. The words from her mouth changed as well. She wanted to know why he was hateful, mean and cruel. He had answers for her then, he was certain, but now those reasons abandoned him or made no sense at all. Cruelty was the way the world worked, from Kings to wildlings, a voice in his head spoke in a beastly growl. Yet, he’d been shown nothing but kindness and care since he woke.

 

And there was a memory, just at the edge of his mind, a place thick with fog and muted sounds. A memory full of fire and heat from a source that burned green. The stench of vomit and fresh blood came clearly to him. The girl, grown and smelling of her own unique, woman’s blood was under him –why the fuck was she _under him_ \- while he gripped a dagger that trapped her hair between his threats and the pale, unblemished, _perfect_ flesh of her throat. In the memory, her lips parted while his heart raced and his stomach clenched in a way he _knew_ had never happened before.

 

Sandor inhaled sharply, shaking his head. His heart continued with its rapid pace, though the memory was fading back to wherever it had come from. There was fear – an immense amount of fear- in that memory and he wanted nothing to do with it.

 

“Steady now,” Sandor heard the Elder Brother speak in a calm voice near him. “I don’t want to nick you.” There was a straight razor in the Brother’s hand and lather on Sandor’s face. _When had that happened?_

“Take a deep breath,” the Elder Brother continued, lifting the razor up once again. “I went through too much trouble to keep you from the Stranger. I’d rather not stick you and have you bleed out on the floor. It’s messy. And it would take five of us to carry you out of here to the lichyard. My back’s not what it used to be.”

 

Sandor laughed though he didn’t know why, the black humor appealing to some part of him and settling the flutter in his chest. His eyes landed on the cover of the tome the Elder Brother had brought him. House History of Westeros had been burnt into the tanned leather of deep umber. “Is she in there?” Sandor asked, leaning his head towards the book. “The Stark girl?”

 

“Certainly. House Stark is a great one that has been a part of the lands for thousands of years,” the Elder Brother confirmed as he kept his eyes locked on Sandor’s jaw, “though I thought it would be your own house you’d show more interest in.” The razor made a swift pass over the better half of Sandor’s face as the Elder Brother spoke. Tilting his head left then right, pressing his lips firmly together at times and stretching his jaw out, Sandor was intrigued by his body’s ability to remember things his mind could not while the Elder Brother made quick work of shaving one side of his face from ear level to the bottom of his chin. Obviously, he’d kept himself clean shaven in the past; his current movements were too fluid and natural for a man who had kept a full, or in his case, a half beard for most of his life.

 

“Hold still a moment more. There’s not much on the other side, but there’s some growth down your neck,” the Elder Brother instructed, rinsing the razor in a bowl of water turned cloudy with suds and black whiskers. An edge of cold metal pressed lightly at the side of his Adam’s apple. Without thought, Sandor jerked back and away. Distrust welled from a source so deep there was no bottom, first boiling up from his stomach and then seeping back down under his skin.  He could hear the clanking chains of panic wind their way around his heart, constricting the lump of flesh to the point of pain.

 

A blade near his face was one thing. A blade at his throat was unacceptable. In that moment, Sandor was aware. _Trust no one with your life_. The urge to grab the Elder Brother’s wrist, and twist until bones snapped, rode in on a tide born of anger. How dare the man try and slit his throat! That was what was happening wasn’t it? It was all a ruse; the tools to groom himself, the help with the chore, the tome. They meant to distract him and then rid themselves of him.

 

The Elder Brother had stepped back from him. Oswin was up off the opposite bed and each man looked at him with concern. Then the Elder Brother slowly held the razor out, handle first to him. “Take it,” the man said quietly. “No one’s trying to hurt you. You do it, if you don’t want me to.” Sandor felt frozen, rage and hate telling him never to trust –not under _any_ circumstances- while blank memories couldn’t tell him _why_. Sandor’s fingers trembled as they clasped the razor’s bone handle weakly. It didn’t make sense. Why would men save him then turn on him? Why place a weapon in his hands if their intent was sinister? A sudden wave of nausea replaced the panic crawling through his stomach. What was wrong with him?

 

“. . .sorry,” Sandor said in a hoarse voice, shame and confusion making him avert his eyes. There were words carved into the handle of the razor and his thumb stroked the unknown symbols.

 

“High Valyrian,” the Elder Brother explained. “It says, ‘Trust in action, not in words.’”

 

“It does?”

 

“No,” the Elder Brother said with a shake of his head. “It’s a man’s name and where his home is located. I found it washed up on the shore years ago. But my version sounds better.”  The man kept a small smile on his face and offered a scrap of linen to Sandor. “Either clean up or shave and we’ll move onto your hair. You’re not the first man here to take ill at certain times, Sandor. Sounds, smells, a certain touch. All things that can unsettle a recovering soldier’s mind.”

 

Sandor could not say why the use of his given name felt as if he’d been presented with some sort of prize, but there was warmth to replace the frigid feeling inside him upon hearing it. The name Hound didn’t give him the same satisfaction. Instead, it offered a sense of ill-gotten pride, force fed contempt and bloated with disdain, like a rancid animal carcass, swollen with decay in the heat of summer. He was left to wonder why, in the past, he had insisted on being called that which brought him no pleasure, as he stuck his chin up towards the roof and blindly scraped the razor over his throat himself. His body filled in the gaps his mind struggled to find as one hand held the skin on his neck taut. A few glides of the razor and his fingers told him no more hair remained on his face.

 

Brother Oswin refused to go near his hair. Though they were apparently now on speaking terms, Oswin still twitched with anxiety at the sound of his voice when he barked at either man, coming no closer than the foot of his bed.  The Elder Brother made due, though he warned Sandor he was far from anything resembling a proper barber. Parting Sandor’s hair down the middle, the Elder Brother let out an annoyed huff of air, until Oswin timidly suggested that he should try parting it to the side. The Elder Brother did so and gave Sandor a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. A curtain of black hair fell into one eye, and Sandor blew at it to try and remove it from his line of vision.

 

“It’s how you usually kept it,” Oswin mumbled.

 

“I think you tried using the hair to cover up a bit,” the Elder Brother said gently, gesturing to one side of his face. Sandor grunted in reply. “I’ll only take off two or three finger’s width, to help even it up. It looks as if an animal’s been gnawing at the ends. You probably went at it with a knife at some point.”

 

For several minutes there was only the sound of steady, short clips from the small shears in the Elder Brother’s hands. It was an even, soothing rhythm, like the sharp clicks of a horse’s hooves that had been set at a walk, or the rough grate of a sword over a grindstone. Sounds that felt more like a pulse of life to him than bothersome commotion. It wasn’t long before the Elder Brother finished his task and pulled the chipped piece of square looking glass from his pocket.

 

There was a moment, one fraction of a heartbeat, hardly measurable, in which Sandor hesitated. Undoubtedly, he was going to see something he wouldn’t find anything close to the concept of attractive. He’d count it a success if he could manage not to tremble and weep as he had earlier in the day. The Elder Brother gave him an encouraging look. Oswin scratched at his hand, feigning interest in his palm. Neither man in the room had seemed troubled by his looks, Sandor thought. Perhaps it felt worse than it looked.

 

The mirror revealed a face that might have been considered agreeable . . . if it weren’t for the half that looked like slop mucked up from the floor of a butcher’s shop.  It was as gruesome as it felt, mottled and unnatural looking. There was barely enough skin at his jaw to cover what lay beneath, a thumbnail’s worth of white bone visible. A scraggly line of an eyebrow, a missing ear, lips that smudged at the edge into scar tissue, an eyelid with a bit of droop to it, and between all of it caustic tones of red made his skin look inflamed and sore.

 

That was his _face_.

 

“. . . fuck me,” Sandor said in a whisper, shock making any true emotion impossible.  

 

The Elder Brother frowned but didn’t correct Sandor’s curse, as he might have with Brother Oswin. Instead, the man bestowed him with an unblinking, understanding stare as he spoke. “You’ve faced a trial in your life and survived. Don’t forget that. One patch of skin is not the definition of a man. It is a piece, not the whole.”

 

Sandor swallowed and dared to look into the mirror once again, though a large part of him wanted to hurl it into the fire, watch it shatter and burn till there was nothing left but a bad memory of what he had seen. A piece, not the whole, he repeated silently to himself. If the burnt half was ignored, he was left with something far less displeasing. A prominent nose, strong chin and jaw line would be considered on the verge of comely to some. His eyes were a slate gray; a shade he hadn’t seen on any other man since he woke. That was at least one unique thing he could offer, it seemed.  There was no great beauty about him but his profile was decent from a certain angle. But, the Seven help him, it all hardly mattered when paired with the deformity of the other half, Sandor thought darkly.

 

His hair came down past his shoulders, straight and smooth looking; his own personal sheet of shadow to hide behind if he wished. It still lay over one eye, making him blink and causing the skin on his neck and forehead itch. It was going to get in his food, knot in his sleep and risk getting burnt every time he leaned over a candle’s flame. The advantage of staying hidden didn’t seem worth the bother to Sandor.  

 

A sharp nail of pain struck his temple. Sandor remembered walking the length of a corridor and, upon hearing a girl’s laughter, pausing to listen outside of a door. “Isn’t he the most handsome Prince in all the world?” the memory of Sansa’s voice cried out delightedly. “Our sons will have his golden locks one day and I’ll keep it curled to their chins. I do so love a fair crown of hair. Any longer and a man looks like a shaggy bear!”  There was the sound of a presumed companion’s giggle and Sandor had stormed off in a fury. Black, straight and long couldn’t compete with what young ladies swooned over.

 

Willful tenacity lashed back at the knowledge that he had submitted. He had let himself become defeated. Because of his face. Because of his hair. Because of all that he was he had turned his back on happiness and settled for loneliness. _Bugger that!_ He wasn’t the same person as the one in the memory, yet, he wasn’t completely different either.  The Hound stubbornly chose to snap and snarl, to brood and rage. Sandor could choose his path as well.  

 

Sandor raised his eyes from the man in the looking glass and tugged at his hair. “Make it shorter,” he said to the Elder Brother, a rebellious joy blooming in his chest.

 

 

********  

 

 

The wheezing inhales and whistled exhales of Brother Oswin’s snoring were the only sounds in the room. The logs in the hearth had long ago burned down to coals and those had eventually snuffed themselves out, leaving nothing but ashes and smoke.  Dawn was on its way, an oily purple winning out over the black of night. The few stars Sandor could observe from his window were dimming in their journey to whereever it was they went when the sun shined brightest. There would be a novice Brother soon, to build the fire back up for the day, bring him fresh water and empty the bucket by his bedside. Though he still needed someone to haul its contents out to the midden heap, at least he could manage filling it on his own now, small blessing that it was. Sandor hated the smell of piss in the room. Shit was worse, and he swore he’d be walking to the latrine on his own within the next week no matter what his leg had to say about it.

 

He should try and stay awake until after the first Brother, Sandor thought, eyelids lowering slowly, trying to fight off sleep. After the novice preformed his chores in silence, bells would ring for morning prayers. Following that, the Elder Brother would bring a bowl of porridge made thick with goat’s milk to break his fast with.  If there was time in his schedule, the man would stay and talk. If not, the Elder Brother left him with apologies and a covered plate of cured meats, dried fruits and a heel of bread for later on. Sandor was on his own on those days, with his books and his stone counting and his boredom until late afternoon. 

 

The history book lay open next to Sandor on his bed. The words on the page in front of him blurred and crashed together to form nonsense. He was far too tired to make anything out of the pictures and letters before him. It hadn’t taken much to persuade the Elder Brother to let Oswin stay in the room with him overnight; the young Brother’s convenient position in King’s Landing proving to be a useful insight into a section of Sandor’s life. The Elder Brother allowed the both of them a chance to speak throughout the night. Sandor’s questions were never ending as Oswin hovered nearby and turned to certain pages within the large tome the Elder Brother had left them, pointing out one House after another that should have had some meaning to him.  The Elder Brother brought them a tray of salted fish, stuffed with herbs and surrounded by vegetables from the dining hall. There were two sizable pitchers of the spiced honey ale the Brothers brewed as well. Soon after the first jug had been drunk, Oswin was sitting on Sandor’s bed, his cheeks flushed, snorting over the sigils of some of the Houses. Sandor didn’t stop with his inquiries until Oswin yawned and stretched deeply before nearly passing out on Sandor’s shoulder. Flinching at the touch, Sandor pushed the man onto the floor without guilt and Oswin had clambered up into the opposite bed to sleep away what little of the night remained.

 

 _Lannister, Baratheon, Clegane, Stark._ Sandor repeated the names to himself.

 

 

Oswin had explained other houses to him but those four were the ones he found himself most curious about. His own House was new to the realm, just three generations strong. Fifty years ago there had been no Sers, no banner of yellow and black. House Clegane’s page in the book was exactly that. A single page of names crossed off until only two remained. It saddened him, somewhere in his lost heart, to see the name of a mother and sister marked off as well as his father’s. Oswin could only tell him how his house had come to be, not the fate of those within it.

 

It had taken time and many dregs of ale for Oswin to explain all he knew of Sandor’s role in serving first the Lannister household and then the crowned Prince, Joffrey Baratheon. The young Brother knew more about Sandor’s use as a sworn shield to Queen Cersei then he did of Sandor’s time spent protecting the future King. Sandor listened, equally enthralled and appalled at the stories and rumors Oswin had to share. He’d been significant. By all the Gods, he had been the one tasked with keeping first a Queen and then a Prince safe from harm! He was the sword ensuring the rule of an entire land stay within the Baratheon’s grasp.

 

But why was he no longer engaged in their service? Why was he sucking down ale instead of wine and keeping company with monks and not slags? What had happened between then and now?  Oswin had no answers for him. The Brother apologized –Gods, he was _sick_ of everyone apologizing to him- and suggested they ask the Elder Brother in the morning. The leader of the silent men kept ravens and tried to stay in touch with the world beyond the swamp-like shores of the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother didn’t share much of the information he collected with novices, but Oswin was certain the man would help him.

 

Sandor had deliberately waited to look at the last house of interest until Oswin had fallen asleep. A wolf’s head sigil greeted him when he found the pages containing House Stark’s history. And there, in the middle of a page, was a name that meant everything. She was all he had now, the only memory worth keeping. There was a feeling, open and raw with need, rooted inside him as solid as his bones and as profound as his soul. Sansa Stark was important. She was _something_. Something essential and treasured. She was _his._ In some way. If only he could remember how.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

The attempt to stay awake throughout the night and morning had been in vain. Perhaps Sandor had been able to perform such a feat before, but now, with a body still struggling to keep up with healing, there was no fending off sleep indefinitely.  Sandor dreamt, though he could not remember finally succumbing to sleep. Milk of the poppy had kept dreams from him, but without it, vivid pictures came to him while resting.  

 

In his dream, a tree, white as the beaten sands of a shore and with the face of an elderly man carved into it, cried tears the color of rubies. At the base of the tree, a she-wolf sat, barely bigger than a newborn pup and gray in color with the lightest of blue eyes. A child would have called it precious. It looked weak and pathetic to Sandor. Trying to lick at its belly, the pup ended up rolling head over heels and Sandor knew it would never survive on its own. Better to slit its throat than let starvation have at it. He wasn’t a wolf-bitch. There was no way for him to suckle and care for it.

 

As he approached the little wolf, tracks of blood-tears ran down the trunk of the tree, catching in the grooves of the bark and slowly trickling into the wolf’s fur. As the first few drops dripped onto the pup’s head, she yipped and leapt in the air, snapping at nothing but the winds around her. With each jump she grew larger and the color of her fur shifted from gray to a dazzling mix between scarlet and amber; living, breathing, glowing fire. A last flick of her tail, a hard toss of her head, and there was a creature of impressive beauty before him. When the wolf took notice of him, locked her blue eyes on his gray ones and took a step forward, it was he who turned his back and ran.

 

When Sandor woke, he was alone.  There was an uneasy feeling in his stomach and a bright square of sunlight on his chest, telling him it was past noon, but not yet close to evening. His usual bowl of porridge had been left for him, though it was so old and congealed at that point the spoon within it stuck straight up into the air. Sandor sniffed at the brick of oats and made a face at the sour smell of curdled milk. Dumping the bowl’s contents into the bucket at his bedside, he then pissed on top of it, expressing his opinion of the mash. He could smell frying bacon in the mornings, wafting from some undiscovered hallway, and all he was offered was bland gruel. Sandor glared at his leg angrily.

 

At least he’d been left a hefty portion of dried and cured foods, as well as the porridge. Missing a single meal left him ravenous now that his body had made up its mind to keep on living. Breaking off a hunk of the dense, brown bread next to his plate, Sandor chewed thoughtfully for several minutes. The wolf in his dream was Sansa; the obvious symbolism between herself and her house’s sigil making the fact so clear any fool with half a mind could work that one out. The tree was more puzzling. Sandor felt nothing but a tug of what might have been regret, but mainly it was indifference. The tree -and its tears- were more important to the wolf than himself. Tragedy had struck her at some point, ushering in a rapid change from pup to wolf.  A girl had blossomed into a woman quickly and, apparently, right before his eyes. The whys and hows behind it all lay hidden in the images within the dream.

 

What intrigued Sandor more than the reasons was the way he _felt_ during her transformation. Anger and disgust had been at the forefront when Sansa was a child and the wolf, a pup. Then pity wormed its way inside him. There was helplessness –a hollow, empty cavern of seething rage- at his inability to stop the tears of the tree from tainting the innocent pup. Disgust changed to commiseration as Sandor touched the scars on his cheek unconsciously.  Anger still sat in the corner, ready to charge again at a moment’s notice, but there had been a shift inside him. It wasn’t the pup’s fault she was as she was made to be. She hadn’t asked for the life of a wolf or a Lady anymore than he had asked for half a face and to wake in a bed, missing every piece of himself except her.  Something as fickle as birth and fate had played the both of them. They were opposites, yet something beat itself against the walls of his heart, telling him that they were the same.

 

By the time Sandor worked his way through his salted beef and wrinkled plums, he had come to the conclusion that, as Sansa grew into a woman, as the pup did into a wolf, admiration had been added to the sortie of his clashing emotions. Sansa was breathtaking, in both spirit and looks. The wolf in his dreams radiated strength that had looked him straight in the eye. There was a blanket of unsettling fury and distrust covering all these thoughts though, leaving Sandor confused that he could feel such conflicting, intense emotions all at once when thinking of Sansa. It felt as if he had loved her. But then why did it also feel as if he hated her as well? The two emotions weren’t meant to coexist when thinking on a person and certainly not when his sights had been set upon a woman. Love and hate formed a tightly wound knot within him that Sandor had no idea how to begin to try and untangle.

 

The very end of his dream was the part Sandor didn’t care for. The wolf had taken one step towards him– _only a single one_ \- and he had bolted like a deer finding itself caught up within a hunt. There must have been some moment when Sansa had crossed a threshold between them. She had reached out, and he had run. Sandor chewed at the inside of his mouth furiously, shame and fear being the last feelings his dream had left him with.

 

 

*******************************************************************

 

 

Oswin brought Sandor his supper that night, eager at the chance to speak again for an evening. By that point, Sandor had been left with the memories of his dream and the history book for hours. He was irritated at both the lack of attention he’d been given and the growing suspicion that he had not been the brave man spoken of yesterday. On the battlefields, in front of men, he might have been. But a girl –a fucking _child_ \- had woken a slumbering terror inside him.  Grumbling and cursing at Brother Oswin the moment he stepped into the room, Sandor demanded the Elder Brother come speak with him. Sandor didn’t want opinions and Oswin’s youthful tales. He wanted facts. He wanted truth. The bowl of stew he’d been offered ended up hurled and smashed against a wall. Oswin ran for the doorway, trying to explain the Elder Brother was occupied but would visit soon. A shower of thrown cutlery and a shouted insult was Sandor’s reply.

 

“That’s enough of that!” a voice bellowed, while the door swung open fully. The Elder Brother stood in the doorframe, shoulders squared and his brow lined with deep trenches of anger. The man seemed to have grown six inches taller as he put a protective arm up, blocking Oswin from the room. “I can hear your blasphemies all the way down the hall! Do you think this is going to get you what you want?”

 

“You’re here aren’t you?” Sandor growled back, pointing at the history book. “I’ve read it. There’s nothing in there but names and dates. Where’s my brother? Where’s the Stark girl? Why am I here?!”

 

“Do you expect to have answers in one day?”

 

“I expect more than nothing.”

 

“Watch your tongue! I don’t wish to, but I can have the stronger Brothers set you on that steed of yours and send you off into the bogs without supplies. You think I’ve done nothing for you? I’ve got half a dozen novices pouring through letters and records, pulling out anything with your name on it and setting it all in order. That’s all they’ve done all day! They could be planting or fishing but I’ve given their work to others and set them at the task of helping _you_. I was in the middle of writing to a contact in King’s Landing to inquire about your brother’s whereabouts before I was interrupted.”

 

Sandor sighed, a rumble catching in his throat. He wanted to continue arguing, if only to break up the monotony of being left alone with his half-memories inside the drab, stone room for the sick and recovering.  But fighting a man who seemed genuine in his offer to continue to help him was a poor choice. There was a temper inside him but it could be held in check with logic. There was a certain satisfaction knowing he had gotten what he was after. Answers were coming slowly but progress was being made. Anger _had_ worked but it was time to switch tactics if he was going to keep the Elder Brother nearby. “It’s boring here,” Sandor said in way of explanation, waving a hand at the wall now sprayed with broth and bits of meat. “No one’s been here all day.”

 

The Elder Brother looked over his shoulder and spoke quietly to Brother Oswin. The younger man left Sandor’s line of vision and the Elder Brother pulled a chair close to his bed. “It’s going to take time, Sandor,” the Elder Brother said as he sat. “Unless you can remember on your own, there is no way to change that. Does a river find itself connected to the sea immediately? Or does it twist and bend, taking days and weeks and months to find its way? Give me patience and I will give you all the answers I can.”

 

“I want out of this bed. I hate this room.”

 

The Elder Brother smiled for the first time since stepping over the threshold. “You haven’t forgotten all. You _think_ you have but you’re being drawn to your true self with every word and action you take. You dislike stillness. This is true for most of the men here. But quiet and stillness can sometimes offer the mind the very sanctuary it needs to find its voice.”  

 

Sandor picked at a thread that had come loose from the long shirt they’d given him to wear. He hated it as well; the color was a dingy cream and though it was meant as a nightshirt, on his frame, it barely covered all that needed covering. The Elder Brother spoke true but it wasn’t any less frustrating to know he was stuck right where he was for the time being.

 

Brother Oswin returned. There was a hesitant grin on his face and fresh bowl of stew in one hand. In the other, he carried a bucket full of rags and steaming water. Sandor shrugged in thanks while the Elder Brother himself began scrubbing at the mess he’d made of the wall. Brother Oswin soon joined in the task. Though his stomach groaned in disapproval, Sandor set the bowl of stew aside while the two men worked. It didn’t seem right to eat in comfort while another man labored because of him. Sandor wasn’t exactly _sorry_ for his outburst, but he did feel a twinge of remorse when he heard the Elder Brother’s knees pop.

 

Once finished, Oswin took the sullied rags away and the Elder Brother again took a seat, gesturing to Sandor that he should eat. “I think it’s too early, but if you give your word to stay put for one more night I will find crutches for you tomorrow. You should let the leg heal another two or three days, but if you’re going to tear the place apart, by all means try and walk. I don’t think you’ll get far but you seem the type that needs to learn on his own. Give yourself one more night. Agreed?”

 

Sandor gave the Elder Brother a nod, his mouth too full to respond. This was better news than he had expected. He didn’t care how far he made it; just a few steps to the window would be a victory in his mind. The air around him had become stale, the bed beneath him making his skin crawl with a need to _move_. One more night and he would have his first taste of freedom.

 

“You’ve been agreeable since you’ve woken,” the Elder Brother continued. “I understand your restlessness but is there a particular reason you felt the need to waste good food? What is it that brought forth such anger?”

 

“There’s a damned wolf running through here!” Sandor nearly shouted while dropping his spoon with a loud plunk back in his stew and pointing at his temple, the frustrated feelings of earlier back.

 

“You mean Sansa Stark, the ‘Little Bird’?” the Elder Brother said knowingly.

 

“I . . .she’s. . . something! I don’t know! But she’s in my head when I sleep and won’t go away. She’s all I can remember.”

 

“And what do you remember?”

 

Sandor scrunched his face into a mask of displeasure. “Fear,” he finally said quietly. It was a hard thing to admit to another man but it felt like a burden that needed released. “She was small when I met her. Not a babe. Far from that! But not quite grown yet. And I think I hated her but . . . not always.” Sandor looked at the Elder Brother with genuine confusion in his eyes. “If I hated her than why is she still here? Why didn’t she leave with all the rest of it?”

 

The Elder Brother’s fingers drummed against his knee while he thought for a moment. “I will personally look for her name as well. If she is the only link to your past we have to work with, then that is the path we will follow. The Gods do not always speak directly to us. Sometimes they use others to reach out to us. It is up to us to listen carefully to all who enter our lives. Your mind has chosen her as your guide into this new life. She seems to be the keeper of your secrets. If there is knowledge to be found about her I will share it with you and we will see if it can be of any use. That is all I can offer at the moment.”  Rising, the Elder Brother pressed a few fingers to Sandor’s shoulder and left in silence.

 

 

****************************************************************

 

The following morning, the Elder Brother kept his word, bringing both Sandor’s first two meals and a stack of papers ranging in color from snow white to the grubby yellow of a tanner’s supply of piss. The papers were bound with twine and the Elder Brother explained the ones on top were the oldest; the bottom ones being delivered closer to the time Sandor had been found. It was recommended that he start at the top and work his way down. The Elder Brother promised to visit in the evening to answer any questions he could or shed light on any puzzling details.  There wasn’t a set of crutches on the Isle suitable for Sandor’s size but a Brother skilled at wood working was fashioning him at least one that day and the Elder Brother would bring it later.

 

Sandor’s fingers raced across the rough pages of parchment, his first meal completely forgotten. Touching each line, he read as if he could somehow absorb the words and force them to form into the memories he was missing. His eyes scanned the paragraphs that had been marked for him to read. Ones that contained either his birth name or the canine moniker he chose to go by; the latter making far more appearances than the former. The letters went back eight years, a time when he had switched from protecting a Queen to a Prince. Sandor opened the history book he had thought useless a day before and matched the names in the letters to those in the book. He read it all, every word on every page, not only the passages that had been marked for him. Sandor feared one missed sentence would be the exact one needed to coax his memories back to life.

 

Almost a decade of service had been recorded. There were notations indicating his loyalty to Prince Joffrey and both the Lannister and Baratheon households. There seemed to be no major battles that he had been a part of in the first selection of letters, only small skirmishes during travel, or riots of unruly peasants. The blood he had spilt, protecting the realm’s future King during those times, had been noted. There was also a more formal notification declaring him the winner of a Tourney that had been held during his second year of new service.

 

None of it seemed familiar. There were no memories that came to him. No visions. Nothing. It was all there before him - the obedient, efficient soldier that was Sandor Clegane- and he felt _nothing_.

 

Hours went by as he made his way through years of what felt like someone else’s story. He had the facts he had asked for. The Elder Brother had come through. But that’s all any of it was; hard, cold marks of black on white. Unfeeling scrawls from a quill that had no _meaning_ behind them. Sandor found himself growing angry at the men that had penned his tale. They should have given him more! Sights and sounds and feelings! That was what he truly craved, not the litany of deeds and accomplishments the historians had left him with. Where he hoped to find details, there was only tedious repetition. Were a sharp sword and a willingness to kill all he had been good for? There was no mention of a family. No wife or a home. Not that he could blame a woman for running from the sight he’d seen in the Elder Brother’s looking glass, but . . . no one? Not one person attached to him in any significant way?

 

 _Little Bird_.

 

That was all he had to cling to, the only clue that he had been something _more_. He didn’t know where the name had come from but he knew it to be Sansa’s. There had been no mention of her in the first half of the letters he had read thus far. If he hadn’t seen her name in the history book, he might have thought her a sweet imagining meant to keep him company in the wasteland of human interaction he seemed to have wondered through all his life.  

 

Disappointment and frustration grew at his lack of emotion or triggered memories. Each was disheartening but they were also a fuel that kept Sandor plowing through page after page. There had to be something of value to him if he searched long enough.  No matter how small or paltry, he would take whatever he could.

 

On one page with numerous creases, there was an announcement of travel and the listed parties involved. A man, Jon Arryn, had died and his place within the court needed filled. The royal family, their servants, and guards would be on the road for several weeks while they made their way to the home of the next potential Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

 

A march to Winterfell! That was the tinder that started the flame of recognition within him. The memories were vague but Sandor could recall heated days of sweat in his eyes turning into cooler temperatures. He was grateful for it after a long day spent baking in an oven of armor. A breeze, soft as a gentle caress had touched his brow each evening and fanned through his fine hair. There were campfires, horses, chunks of boar meat that had been singed over the fire on sticks until it had blackened, and flagons of sour wine. Sometimes they lodged at inns along the way, each as unremarkable and dull as the next. Faces swam before him; balding innkeepers, ragged boys asking for a copper to stable the horses and plump serving girls. Sandor swore he could still feel the itch of flea bites on his shins from sleeping on rarely turned mattresses and the crick in his neck from pillows as flat as the sheets beneath them. On some nights, rain dripped onto him while he slept. But there was also enjoyment somewhere in the memories. A proper bed and roof had been missed but hunting, riding and drinking wasn’t a terrible way to pass a few weeks.

 

A day came when they rode up to a massive stone structure. Sandor closed his eyes and could see the very image of rock and iron that made up the walls and front gate of Winterfell. There were people around him. Blondes and lightly toned brunettes near him on horseback –his people- though no names came to him. He watched a man with a crown on his head nearly lift another, shorter, darker haired man off the ground in an embrace. There was an attractive, slim woman next to the shorter man. Each had pelts of fox and wolf hanging from their shoulders. There were children; the Stark clan presumably. On one end of the line there were two boys. One looked as if he’d just outgrown his swaddling clothes. Next was a girl, with brown hair that had perhaps been in tight braids at the start of the day but now hung loose within its ties. She had a scowl on her face as she stared at a helm sitting in the mud at her feet. On the other end was a young man with rusty colored hair and a bit of height to him compared to his father, though Sandor looked down at them all from his saddle.

 

It was the eldest girl that had his full attention. In a land void of color, she was the bright patch that stood out amongst it all. She had her mother’s delicate features but her hair wasn’t a dull red like some of her siblings. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight. It fucking sparkled. Sandor _remembered_. He remembered being struck by those strands of molten steel. Only for a moment, he allowed himself to gaze at her. And then he grew angry that he had been distracted from his duty. She was a highborn Lady and they were all the same, full of false courtesies and the belief that their shit smelled like roses. He knew it better than most. Knights and Ladies. Kings and Queens. Titles and bloodlines used as costumes to cover their baser instincts. Everyone around him was a fraud. The Sansa in this memory wasn‘t quite a woman yet, but she would grow up to become just like all the others. Sandor knew, at that time, he had been completely unimpressed with everything. Everything except for the color red.

 

The Stark children stared at Sandor’s party, some awestruck and others in calculating assessment. The Lady Stark curtsied to their King. The smaller girl –Sandor’s hands flipped through his history book until he found the correct name, near Sansa’s- Arya, looked right at him while he tried to glare back at her through the slit in his hound’s head helm. She didn’t seem deterred in the least so he let his eyes pass over Sansa once more. At first glance, she seemed to be looking at him as well, but no, she was looking past him, to the tall, blonde haired boy, with a thin golden crown on his head, sitting on a chestnut stallion beside him.  She looked absolutely moon-struck, her eyes batting slowly while she lifted her chin and tilted her newly budding teats out just the slightest. The crowned prince gave her a nod and smiled. Sandor rolled his eyes. _That_ was what he’d be guarding during their stay in Winterfell? Two children pretending to be ensconced within a romance? Bugger him!

 

There was no denying Sansa had been an irritation during their distant, silent introduction. Pretty, beautiful even, but an irritation none the less. She was well above his station. He shouldn’t have given her a second look. _But he had_. And a third. And countless ones after that. The numbness that had clouded Sandor’s mind abated, giving way to a prickling, stinging sensation at the back of his neck. He could remember his walk to the Prince’s bedchamber within Winterfell, the room he’d been given near Winterfell’s Master at Arms’ chamber, and the hall in which they dined. Corridors and training yards, fences and walls, all came back to him. Every board and stone his boots had walked upon. Every piece of weaponry his hands had held. All of it as clear as water filtered down from the mountains. There had been two oil lamps and four candle holders within his room. He had to rise an hour earlier than everyone else if he wanted a chance to break his fast. Stranger accepted Winterfell’s stable master but only if there was a basket of apples involved. A repulsive, dwarf of a man argued with him daily. There were dogs in the training yard that licked at his palms. Winterfell’s cook served the richest pork pies he’d ever had the pleasure to eat.

 

A flood of memories washed over Sandor in an almost overwhelming torrent. Winterfell held the first, solid batch of feelings he’d come across since waking. But beyond the boundaries of Winterfell the memories faded. If he wasn’t near Sansa the fog crept back in, covering his sight and damping his other senses. Reading the remaining letters at a double pace, Sandor came across the arranged marriage between Sansa Stark and Joffrey Baratheon. The new Hand of the King would travel with both his daughters to King’s Landing and, when the time was right, the eldest would marry the Prince. One day, Sansa would become Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms and birth sons for her King. Once again, the entire Baratheon and Lannister party packed their belongings and took to the roads.

 

Sandor could recall watching Sansa walk with her wolf, when they stopped for rest. It wasn’t full grown but it wasn’t a pup either. Lady, she had called it, the memory making Sandor snort. Of course the little princess in training would give her mutt an equally fitting title. However, most girls in her position would have chosen a smaller dog of purebred lineage or some rotund lap-cat for their companion. Sansa had not just a wolf to sit at her side, but a _direwolf_ ; a most unladylike pet if ever there was one. There was something different about her that Sandor couldn’t quite place his finger on. He shouldn’t have wanted to. He had never had the inclination to think about others in depth unless they were an opponent in battle, a threat to either himself or his charge. But every time he saw Sansa, with her wolf at her heel on a leash, he looked at her a few moments longer than was strictly necessary.

 

A large crowd gathered around her one day, making jests at her expense and teasing her choice in pet. It was his fault. He had given into the urge to walk closer to her and she had backed up -frightened of a grim looking man- right into his chest. Sandor snapped at her, both amused at her wide eyes and annoyed at her close proximity. When she dropped to her knees to seek comfort from her wolf, the beast growled at him and that had drawn the attention of others. They laughed at her and some reached for their swords, thinking the animal a true threat. He didn’t care for the nudge inside him that told him to do something about it, the wisp of honor like the smoke trail of a snuffed out candle, which said he should correct that which he had caused. She wasn’t his concern and he hated the tremble in her lip that made him open his mouth. He tried to deflect the other’s comments, explaining it was a normal thing in the North to have such an animal from birth. But it came out wrong. His words sounded just as mocking as everyone else’s and he was far too prideful to let on otherwise.

 

Frantically, Sandor searched through the last sheets of paper. This time he looked for Sansa’s name, not his own. Had the Lady actually married her Prince? The thought made Sandor ill but there was no logical reason why it should. Sansa and he were of two vastly different worlds. Joffrey was a suitable match. Had he been so stupid as to allow himself feelings for a highborn all but owned by his employer and destined to one day be his ruler? What had he gotten himself into?  

 

There was no attention given to anything now but Sansa’s name. It appeared only once more and the words surrounding it made Sandor’s heart lurch. Her father had died. Eddard Stark was dead and not by natural means. Lord Stark had been branded a traitor, had confessed to the deed, and instead of being given mercy in the form of service, the newly crowned King Joffrey had taken his head. The blood-tears of the tree in Sandor’s dream suddenly made sense. Sansa had received a swift, savage education in life’s cruelties and he had been powerless to stop it. In fact, Sandor realized with growing dismay, there had been a part of him that had _enjoyed_ watching her crumble.

 

Sandor’s fist closed around the page describing Lord Stark’s death, crushing it into a ball. In his mind he could see Joffrey, a sinister glint in his eye, bidding the royal executioner forward and Lord Stark’s face searching for that of his daughter. The Lord didn’t plead or break as he was dragged into a kneeling position. He kept his eyes on his daughter and then on the ground before him. Sansa was the one who begged. Sansa was the one who screamed and cried on the hard steps of the Sept. Above the stern advice from the Queen, the chattering pleas of a powdered man in a robe, and the suffocating din of the mob before them all; Sansa’s cries were what he remembered most vividly. How had he _ever_ forgotten the sound of her wretchedness? He could hear it clearly now.

 

Sandor was dressed in golden armor with a cloak of pure white that day. It had been given to him just weeks earlier along with his advancement in rank. There were no dents in the armor, no scratches in the scrollwork across the breastplate. The cloak was still the innocent white of a spring lamb, having seen no bloodshed. The swinging whisper of a blade cut through the air and a spurt of red splattered across the left corner of his cloak while Sansa’s sobs echoed in his ears. He stood by the King, loyal and unmoving, daring the shouting crowd to object and test his own skills with a sword.  

 

Shoving the entire pile of letters away from him, Sandor threw the paper in his hand across the room. There were still two or three pages left to read but it was impossible to do so now. For a moment Sandor wished that he hadn’t read them. What started as decent, somewhat pleasant memories of a pretty girl had turned to feelings of self-hate and corruption. He had found pleasure in seeing Sansa’s grief. Or one side of him had. The other wanted to slit the King’s throat in front of her, give his own soul to raise her father from the dead, anything to stop her tears.

 

 

The few drops of Lord Stark’s blood hadn’t been the last or only stain on his Kingsguard cloak. The night of smoke and green fire came back to Sandor. His cloak had been filthy at that point, the blood of no single man or woman recognizable. There were traces of mud and spilt wine, the scent of heavy perfumes used by whores, and probably horseshit as well all blending together. But how much time had passed between the two events? How long had it taken him to turn innocence to darkness? There was one thing he knew to be true in his heart. The cloak hadn’t been the first object in his life to be covered in the evidence of his foul deeds. It was one of many.  He’d been at it for so many years –killing and drinking and whoring- that he had forgotten where it all began. A dreadful thought came to Sandor.

 

 _He_ was the cloak.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The Elder Brother held three pieces of paper. “This one came months ago,” he stated, placing the parchment high on Sandor’s thigh. “This one, weeks ago,” the Elder Brother continued, laying the second sheet on Sandor’s knee. “I thought it best you read them last.”

 

“And that one?” Sandor asked, pointing to the last letter the Elder Brother held close to his robes. That one was being withheld and protected, or maybe it was Sandor the holy man was trying to shelter.

 

“It arrived this morning,” the Elder Brother answered. “Read those first.”  

 

Sandor read and the Elder Brother took a few moments to stir the fire and make sure the window was latched. Finding a hole in the bottom of the glass, the Elder Brother frowned and used a rag to seal the gap. “Never enough to go around it seems,” he sighed. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”  The man looked tired to Sandor, more so than when he had first arrived on the Isle. He might have inquired to the Elder Brother’s appearance, but the letter in his hands held his full attention. It was the answer he’d been looking for earlier in regards to the Little Bird’s fate.

 

Sansa hadn’t married her Prince after all. The royals had passed her off onto the stunted man Sandor had once sparred with in words only. Sandor’s jaw clenched powerfully. Why hadn’t he stopped the madness? He would have never dared place his wants between the King and his betrothed but if the girl had been given up, why hadn’t he stepped in? Why did he let her go? _Gods! She had to vow herself to that monster and lay with him?_ Sandor knew he was no prize where looks where concerned, but at least he had height and was free from deformity. He felt a coward once again. The marriage was sentence enough in Sandor’s mind for her father’s crimes, since he’d been either unwilling or unable to stop it, but no, it hadn’t ended there. There was more contained within that letter.

 

“She couldn’t have killed him! She wouldn’t have! The girl I remember didn’t have it in her. Not even for the man who murdered her father. That’s not her!” Sandor shouted, angry at the accusations he read.

 

“I never said she had a hand in Joffrey’s death,” the Elder Brother said. “Those are other men’s words. Ignorant, shameful men to place the death of a King on the shoulders of a girl. I’ve heard it told she was mistreated by him. I fear that may have been seen as motivation by some. The Imp of House Lannister took the brunt of the blame though. You did see she escaped?”

 

“I did,” Sandor confirmed with a nod. “She’s gone and that’s it then? Her husband’s in chains and she’s vanished? No one knows what became of her after?”

 

The Elder Brother looked past Sandor, to the rag stuffed into the broken window. “There are whispers,” he said quietly. “Echoes carried by the winds, threads among the spider’s web, but I don’t know if anything can be trusted. She must have an ally, someone of influence on her side to remain hidden, successfully, for so long. Either that or . . .”

 

“Or she’s dead,” Sandor finished for the Elder Brother, not understanding half of what the man was telling him. A heavy weight settled at his breast.

 

The Elder Brother spoke gently. “I should hope not. I doubt it but . . . the possibility remains.”  Sandor’s innards had turned to ice. Without her he had nothing. He _was_ nothing. “Read the next one,” the Elder Brother urged.

 

The second letter was written on Lannister stationary, a golden lion with jaws opened wide to reveal teeth like daggers adorned the bottom of the page. It was a bounty. A bounty on himself! One hundred silver stags were promised to the person that could bring back the Hound to King’s Landing, dead or alive, it mattered not to them.

 

“I left? I left her!” Sandor exclaimed, not able to stop the last three words from escaping his mouth. That made sense as to why he didn’t object to the Little Bird’s marriage. He had been gone for weeks by then, he confirmed, comparing the dates that each letter had been written. “Why?” he barked, while the answers came pouring into his mind.

 

The night of fire and wine, the night he held Sansa down and tried to take, she had . . ,she had sung to him! Sansa gave him a prayer instead of parted thighs. She touched him, didn’t hesitate to rub her thumb across his scars and mix blood with tears upon his face.  There had been blood before his invasion of her room. So much blood! Blood and fear and fire everywhere! The houses burned. The city melted. The men and horses shrieked as they caught fire! The air was nothing but smoke and the stench of man and beast alike roasting alive. Fire was _everywhere_! Here in the room with him! He could hear a boy screaming for mercy and laughter, loud and pitiless.

 

“Sandor!” a voice, calmer, and more reassuring than the laughter called to him. “Sandor listen, there’s nothing there!”

 

The room swirled and swayed. The Elder Brother was shaking his shoulders, while he continued to smack at invisible flames on the bedclothes. Then there was wetness on his face and he sputtered when some of it went up his nose. The older man had shoved him right down into a bowl of water! But the tactic worked. Sandor coughed and rubbed at his eyes. There was no fire. Only the small one, across the room and safely tucked inside the hearth.

 

“Drink,” the Elder Brother ordered, placing a cup in Sandor’s hand. More water, not wine or ale, but it was something to focus on. Snatching up the Lannister’s decree, the Elder Brother moved with purpose, walking towards the hearth and throwing the letter into the flames. It curled and blackened before it burned. “No else has read it. No one need know.”

 

“They’re looking for me. I’m not safe here. None of you are safe with me here,” Sandor said. He was frightened. Not of facing a foe or being caught. It was the thought of losing the life he’d barely gotten ahold of that stole his courage. The Quiet Isle had saved him, the Elder Brother had birthed him into a new life and he had no intention of leaving this, his second chance. He feared for the Little Bird he might never see again and the soft hand she had placed on him. He feared for the Elder Brother, for Oswin and all the other innocents that had helped him thus far. If there were crimes he had to answer for they were his burden to bear, not theirs.

 

“I told the little shit to piss off,” Sandor realized, uncomfortable laughter bubbling up at both his past self’s actions and because of the nerves that still flitted inside him. “That’s what started it all. Fucking fire everywhere and they kept marching us out time and time again. I led all those men to their deaths. I wouldn’t do it after the third time. Told them all to piss off and drank myself sick.” 

 

The Elder Brother nodded in sympathy. “I could tell a similar tale.”

 

“But I left her,” Sandor said with sorrow. Then he doubled over, that sharp arrow of pain back in his skull.

 

_“I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”_

_And she had looked at him with eyes that couldn’t fathom the choices set before her._

_She rejected him as a shield. The one thing in the world he could offer a woman and she refused him!_

_Fury, the likes of which he had never known, took over. He could feel a blade in his hand._

“I-I tried to take her with me. I tried to protect her. I _tried_ ,” Sandor groaned through the pain in his head. “She wouldn’t leave. She feared me that much!”

 

“You or your drunkenness?” the Elder Brother asked. “Or was it your anger she feared? The Hound was not a man known for his pleasantries.  Did the Hound ask her to leave or did Sandor?”

 

There was no need to answer the man. They both knew the answer. To be sure it was the Hound that had snarled and rasped at the girl, already frightened half to death from the battle raging outside her window.  Could Sandor truly blame the child for doubting him?  But the want to take her with him had been so _strong_.  Stronger than he ever was. Stronger than Gregor and all the white cloaks put together.  That same urgency ran rampant inside him now, willing him to go collect what should have always been his.

 

“I loved her,” Sandor breathed.

 

_I love her still._

 

 

************************************************************

 

 

“Fuck the Maiden!” Sandor cursed, panting. “Fuck her raw and bloody!”

 

It was good there was no one else in the room to hear his growls of pain. _Gods, but his leg was throbbing and he’d only made it to the window!_ The Elder Brother had been patient thus far with the more colorful phrases Sandor wasn’t entirely sure where he’d learned, but continued to let loose from time to time. This one, he was certain, would have earned him a stern look or lecture, like Oswin often received, though the novice’s profanities were milder than Sandor’s.  Each passing hour, Sandor could sense the Elder Brother drawing him in as one of the flock, whether Sandor willed it or not. It didn’t matter the argument of his presence threatening the safety of the entire Isle.

 

The Elder Brother had simply shrugged in response. “I had to remove a portion of your flesh on the field before daring to move you. I thought you might die on the way back and so I buried it where we had found you. I left your helm to mark the grave. Anyone who finds it will presume that the Hound is dead, as it should be. We don’t often have visitors here. Only those we take in. The sinking sands and water protect us. I would not worry if I were you.”  The last page was still held in the Elder Brother’s hands but a knock at the door interrupted the both of them before Sandor could get a glimpse at it.

 

Brother Oswin had brought the crutch that had been promised to Sandor earlier in the day. Sandor asked, and then shouted at each man to leave him.  This was going to be a weaker moment and Sandor didn’t want anyone present if it could be helped. Oswin complied, a droop in his shoulders but a quick pace in his step. The Elder Brother shook his head, finally giving up the last sheet of parchment and silently waiting.

 

The words on the page made Sandor’s hands shake. The Elder Brother tried to say something but Sandor’s ears had chosen to block out any sound. “Get out,” he seethed and when the holy man made no attempt to leave, Sandor lost all control. “Get out!” he bellowed, reaching for the crutch and swinging it in the Elder Brother’s direction. The man shouted in alarm, frustration evident in his features as he left and slammed the door behind him.

 

Shame immediately washed over Sandor. He was an absolute disgrace to his host! Where did this rage, so quick to show itself, come from? Sandor lurched from the bed, grabbing at the single crutch he’d been given and tucked it under an arm. He found his footing and made for the window, anger at the letter and himself spurring him on. There was no pain. Not for the first few steps. Sandor was too far gone in his emotions to feel pain. It wasn’t until he reached the window that his anger faded and the stinging of a hundred arrows pierced his leg. He quivered like a fawn attempting its first steps. Sandor held fast to the ledge of the window, breathing heavily and cursing his way through all seven of the Gods. 

 

The odds of him being alone, truly lost and alone, had not only doubled, but tripled in the last day. His family was dead. Every single one of them as far as anyone knew. The letter said so. His brother had been slain by some Prince of Dorne that sparked no memory in Sandor’s mind. There was no blood to rescue him. The Stark girl herself might be dead. Sandor felt embarrassment prick at his pride when his vision blurred. His struggle to find himself was like trying to climb a great cliff, only he’d run out of footholds and crags to place his hands. There was no rope to catch him, no men to haul him up. He could go neither up nor down and the only object out there that could possibly save him was the slender, pale hand of a Lady that may no longer exist. If the Little Bird was gone, he might as well let go and let the rocks below have him.

 

Sandor looked upward to the darkening sky. He could not recall if he had ever been a religious man. It seemed unlikely. But this place he’d landed, the shores of an Isle of worship, surely it wasn’t a mistake?  Was there something, out there, farther away than he could imagine, trying to show him a new path?

 

“Where are you, Little Bird?” he asked the stars, but they had nothing to tell him.

 

 

 

********************************************************

 

 

The room was black and still, like the crypts beneath the walls of Winterfell.  The fire was low, showing off only shadows of shapes within her quarters, and the scented candles she loved so much, were nothing more than stubs within their holders with no flame left to give. Sansa gasped, sat bolt upright in her bed, swallowed once and held her breath. Her throat felt as if it were closing and tears gathered in her eyes, not knowing how to express the feeling within her. Should she shout or cry?  Sigh or – the Gods forgive her- voice the tiny spark of pleasure still gathered in her belly? She was choking on something lodged in her chest, the tightness growing with every attempt to inhale! Sansa clawed at her throat and then threw the furs of her bed aside, looking in the direction of her balcony. The floorboards were cold but there was no time to look for her slippers! She felt her way through the room with the aid of memories and trembling fingers. Her knuckles hit the table, her toe caught on the leg of a chair, and her palm smacked into the shelving of a bookcase as she wove her way closer to the glass panes of the tall windows leading outside.

 

Finally, her goal was within a hand’s reach! The hook of the door was shaped like a bird, one wing folding over to keep the latch secure and the chill of the night from her room. Sansa pulled at the iron bird desperately and gave into the urge to weep when fresh, cleansing air washed over her. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe. And she did. One breath became two. Sansa clutched the white railing in front of her and caught the scent of wet grass and the first fires of the morning as a tear slipped down her cheek. The stars still twinkled in the sky but there was a light on the horizon. Soon the stars would sleep and Sansa wondered where it was they went each day. Sometimes she wished she could join them. All she had ever wanted once was to shine, to be beautiful and adored. Now, all she could do was envy the stars.

 

The dreams were coming often, and each time they seemed more real. This time, when the Hound curled himself around her in bed, she _felt_ the heat of his breath on her breasts. When Sansa woke, she discovered her nightgown had ridden up to her ribs. Sansa felt her cheeks flame when she remembered what his hand had felt like laying across her stomach. She had long given up denying it was he that her mind kept seeking out in the night. Her dreams were all she had left. The one secret, private place where Sansa was still _Sansa_ , and the only person who ever joined her there regularly was  . . . _him_. Sometimes Lady was in her dreams. At other times her mother or father would be present and Arya as well. But the Hound! He was there more nights than she could count. The first time she hadn’t quite recognized his features. Ah, but that was a lie! She knew him then; she just didn’t want to _admi_ t to it.

 

Since that first night, his memory was relentless. During the day, Sansa played the role she had been assigned. She did as her false father commanded, chatted with some of the serving girls and tended to Sweetrobin. She said her prayers and petted the old, blind dog that had taken to following her around the property. But at night, her mind took her back to a place that, at first, frightened her. Sandor Clegane hated her. Sansa was so sure of that fact when she came to the Red Keep. It wasn’t until weeks after the night of the Blackwater that the truth had struck her. He had come to her. The Hound was a deserter, a man who carried little more than a youth, scared of flames, inside him, and he had come to _her_. He asked her for a song. Then demanded it. The minstrel of the Vale had taught her well enough what “songs” were. Without Lothor, she might have learned far more whether she wished it or not, but Baelish’s guard was observant and loyal.

 

She’d been terrified of the Hound’s wrath but found his song within her. Despite herself and his lost battle, Sansa’s voice did not betray either one of them. The song wasn’t made of flesh as he had wanted. It was something composed of the fabric carried within each living being’s heart. The place that has a voice no mortal ear can hear; that silent call one soul cries to another. That is what she gave him. And he had _wept_.  He let his tears fall into the palm of her hand, brokenly spoke her secret name and left her with a torn and bloodied cloak. A man didn’t weep when hate was his only emotion. A man didn’t leave when a girl could be taken, if that was his true desire.

 

And a kiss, her mind whispered. _He left you with a kiss. A kiss hard as steel and fiery as the sun._

 

The shrill kree of a catbird sliced through the morning air. Once her presence had been announced, the gray bird chirped and whistled her way through a song. A dog barked within the kennels, knowing morning had come and his chance to run was near at hand. Sansa breathed deeply.

_The Hound did not hate me. And, strangely, I do not hate him._

 


End file.
